


A partridge in a FUCK ME, whats in this drink?

by Koscheyyy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Crack, Drinking, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Never Have I Ever, Peter is Done With this Shit, Sexual References, Vomit, christmas holiday work party, happy holidays!, season four spoilers, spiking drinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:28:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28508199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koscheyyy/pseuds/Koscheyyy
Summary: Hypothesis: how drunk can Tim get Elias at the annual Institute holiday party while going undetected?Equipment: one (1) bottle of Bacardi 151, three trollied coworkers, a wheelbarrow of confidence and a disappointed secret husband.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, jonathan sims/ martin blackwood (implied), original female character/ rosie (mentioned), sasha james/ timothy stoker (implied)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 114





	A partridge in a FUCK ME, whats in this drink?

**Author's Note:**

> A secret Santa exchange for Mage from our brilliant Discord Family! This is probably the crackiest thing ive ever written but im very pleased with it.

Ah Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year. That moment after twelve months of shitty English weather, shitty news and even shittier politics the whole nation can sit together and judge their family members on what type of potatoes they brought to the Boxing Day lunch.

It is also, and most importantly, the best excuse to get absolutely sloshed on cheap booze and be passed out by 12am on a Tuesday. 

Unfortunately for one Timothy Stoker he is stone cold sober and conscious at his desk counting down the minutes ‘til closing time. Much like every day. Monday to Friday and maybe even Saturday, if Big Boss Sims is running late on a deadline. Again.

But today is special. Today is the day Tim has been waiting for. Today is when Christmas officially comes to the archives for exactly four hours. Six til ten. After hours. 

Though this year is going to be like no other. 

This year Tim has a plan. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The clock tick, tick, ticks its merry countdown as the archive gang sit at their desks pretending to work. 

Well, Tim isn’t pretending. That would be an overzealous way to waste energy. No, Mr Stoker is leaning back in his chair, spinning his biro between thumb and finger. Making it his sworn duty to distract all in his vicinity as the minutes pass on by. 

“what are you guys bringing to the party?” He inquires, throwing the question to the ceiling and waiting for the clacking of keyboards to slow. Martin, sweet innocent Martin, is inevitably first to get caught in the carefully placed verbal trap. Slowly, the man sits up from his hunched position, stretching out like a cat in a sunbeam and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his scrunched nose. He then turns his gaze to the half-filled report sitting next to his computer and contemplates.

“I thought everything was being provided?” He states with the sweet innocence he so often acquires. 

“Yeah but what are you bringing? You know, drinks wise” Tim reveals with a winning grin, leaning up into his seat to better get his point across. “Schnapps? Jack Daniels? Tequila?” 

Martin's eyebrows shoot up as realisation hits, “oh, OH… i thought we weren’t allowed-?”

“We’re not” Sasha’s voice pipes up from across the room. She has turned in her chair, addressing her co-workers with a less than approving scowl, though her grin tells another tale. “But what the others don’t know wont hurt them” 

“Exactly!” Tim giggles with barely contained triumph, once again leaning back in his chair to balance on two legs. “So, m’lady Sash, what are you bringing? May I ask?”

Sasha pushes her wide spectacles up the bridge of her nose and thinks upon it for a moment. The sneaking of drinks into the holiday party is only a recent thing that she, Tim and half of artefact storage started about three years ago. It’s a grand tradition of bringing in booze in the most outrageous concealments they can find to ‘spice up’ the festivities in the best of ways. 

Though Tim’s idea of using a shampoo bottle to hide peach schnapps last year had him vomiting bubbles for about an hour. But it was worth it. They even got Jon to get in on it last year and by get in on it they mean ‘he accidentally found out about it after drinking pink gin out of a Fanta bottle all night and got stuck in the elevator for forty minutes’. It is a beloved tradition and one they are not going to let go of lightly. 

Especially when Tim has the most brilliant plan to spring into action this very evening. 

“vodka, i want Jon to sing Fairytale of New York” Sasha informs as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, “what about you?”

Tim grins.

“I thought you’d never ask” with all the dramatic flourish of a born class clown he stands and presents himself before his desk, addressing his adoring audience. “For you see i have a plan, me amigos, that involves a very expensive Bottle of Bacardi 151 and one unsuspecting boss”

Martin balks from across the room, almost falling out of his chair. “That- that- Tim that Drink will kill Jon-“ 

“No, no, no, no- you miss the point my troubled friend- getting Jon drunk is old hat, no offence Sasha-“ he graces her with an apologetic nod “no, I’m going for a bigger fish this Christmas” 

A pause is placed strategically for dramatic effect.

The audience quiets as the penny begins to make its final descent with a hurried ‘ping’.

The stage is set. The audience primed and the actors aware of their cues. 

The show is about to begin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The room smells of workplace sadness and old books and maybe a dash of Christmas cheer. Though that element is muted by the overwhelming sleep deprivation of everyone in the room. 

The Secretary staff were early, naturally, having been planning this get-together for the total of three days and the library bunch all filtered in roughly on time. Security were milling around in the back, sucking the helium out of the balloons and doing good impressions of other staff as those from artifact storage arrived. Late as usual. 

The archival gang are also late but fashionably so, under Tim’s description as he was the one who drove and picked everyone else up from their respective homes. Speaking of the archive buds, they are all looking like a charity shop threw up on them with the best casual wear Oxfam could dig up. 

Tim, dressed in his super festive ‘there’s Ho’s in this house’ christmas jumper, enters the commandeered cafeteria with characteristic enthusiasm and a mouthwash bottle clutched in hand. Following in his joyful wake is Sasha, Martin and an apprehensive Jon. 

“Well then, let’s get this party started!” Mr Stoker announces himself, lifting his mouthwash bottle up in a mock toast to the evening before approaching the buffet table. The inhabitants of the hall do seem to perk up with his arrival, his enthusiasm kicking up more conversations and even lead to the ancient stereo being turned up. 

Jon, Martin and Sasha of course settle together on one of the cleared tables, seating themselves and watching as Tim pours his mouthwash into little plastic cups. Even sharing it with other staff members. Jon still has no reason why Tim brought Listerine to the office party but he promised himself in the bathroom mirror to not be a ‘drag’ or ‘downer’ this afternoon. So he lets it slide. 

“Can I interest any of you to partake of some… oral refreshment?” Tim asks as he makes his way over to their shared table, offering his drinks.

“Not if you’re going to call it that” Martin scoffs jovially while reaching for a cup. 

Jon turns his nose up at the exchange, “no, thank you Tim”. He offers his kindest expression, not quite a smile and pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose as self consciousness creeps across his skin. Maybe he should have accepted the offer. That would have been more polite.

“You’d prefer some orange juice? Right Jon?” Sasha hints subtly as she procures the carton from her purse. Because that’s a normal thing to have in a purse. 

Though he accepts this offer. It’s only polite of course. 

Somewhere across the room the atmosphere seems to pick up, with laughter and music brightening up the mood. The security team are even beginning to dance as Tim’s Listerine begins to settle in. 

To Jon’s right Martin chokes on his drink, red faced and breathless. “Jesus Tim, where did you get this?” He sputters out, putting the cup down. His cheeks are already glowing with a blazing warmth as the tips of his ears turn pink.

“Aldi” Tim shrugs, tapping the cap of the mouthwash with a childish grin. 

Jon ignores the exchange and sips at his orange juice. 

It tastes funny. Though he doesn't tell Sasha this.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

An hour into the festivities does their host arrive, ‘fashionably’ fashionably late, drifting in like an unwanted rain cloud on an already semi awful picnic. 

He has of course been looming in his office, watching the festivities through the eyes of a cheap cardboard cut out of the Grinch that has been pushed into the corner. Elias, for all his voyeuristic joy, could have stayed up in his comfy office chair all evening but as the overseer (excuse the pun) and director it is his obligated duty to at least mingle with his staff for five minutes. As is the holiday spirit. 

The expected reception of polite smiles and conversational niceties however is not what he is greeted with. 

Though he isn’t one to let surprise mark him as he adjusts his tie and walks into the fray. First he passes across the buffet, picking at a half opened packet of Party Rings as he goes before embedding himself in with the secretaries. Rosie is there, dressed in a red cocktail dress that isn’t really suitable for this time of year or the professional setting of the institute. Though Elias bridles the rising urge to nag and allows Rosie to enjoy her messy flirting with Victoria from the library. 

From across the room he spies the artefact storage hoard giggling in the corner and begins to peel away from the secretaries when he is flagged down by a bigger disturbance. 

“Ellliiiaaasssss!!!!!!” Mr Stoker calls, wildly waving his arms about like a flailing blow up doll they have in a car dealership lot. He is a beacon that cannot be ignored. Especially when his table-fellows all begin to collaborate in the sing-song beckoning with him.

Elias, with businessman-like ease, turns on his heel after deciding to entertain his beloved archival puppets. A thin lipped smile gracing his features that glints in the cheap fairy lights strung up across the ceiling as he makes his approach. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

“Good afternoon Mr Stoker” Elias greets, his hands clasped behind him to pertain that cold facade of professionalism that he is so proud of. “And the rest of you” he offers a courteous nod to the others gathered around the table. Trying hard not to note their odd constitutions. 

With Martin being as red as a sunburnt tomato and Jon acting uncharacteristically joyful while Sasha giggles uncontrollably under her breath. There is something wrong with this picture, though Elias can’t put his all-seeing eye on it. 

“Enjoying your evening?” He prompts, sweeping his gaze across the table. 

“All the better for seeing you!” With little volume control, Tim answers before flinging his arms wide in a welcoming gesture. He looks cheerier than usual with his caddish charm boosted somewhat.

In a whimsical moment of weakness the corner of Elias’s mouth turns upward as he thinks about how Tim reminds him of his younger self. His much, much, much, much younger self. 

How quaint, he thinks as a wonderful idea of ‘new management’ pops into his mind. But there’s time for that later, after his mandatory mingling. 

“I shan't interrupt your festivities-“

“Nonnonnnononoono-NO!” Tim interrupts “stay! Join us!” 

Taken aback by his employee’s overzealous need for him to stay, Elias pauses and struggles to think. This isn’t an interaction he is used to. Usually his troop of depressed worker bees scuttle away from his forced conversations like rats on a sinking ship. To have Tim, of all people, welcome the opportunity to ‘chat’ was bizarre, to say the least. 

And bizarre is Elias’s business. 

So he sits in the vacant seat beside his grinning Archivist and embeds himself into the social niceties. 

“See Sash, I told you i could get him to play” Tim elbows his giggling compatriot, his grin stretching impossibly wider as he almost tips out of his chair. 

Elias, in all his years of knowledge, starts to catch up on what’s happening. Though his brow continues to pinch with skepticism.

“What game?” Interest peaked, he places his elbow on the table and leans in close, a disastrous tell to any seasoned gambler. 

“You’ve never played?!” Sasha gasps. Somewhere down the table Martin makes a weird wheezing noise which Elias is pretty sure is laughter, but he's not interested enough to care.

“No, you haven’t explained” 

Martin makes that wheezing noise again. Maybe he's choking? Well, Sasha’s seeing to it anyway. Let’s move on.

“Oh! It’s never have i never- forever- nerber have I ever-er- uh..-“ the deplorable Mr. stoker fumbles on his words. 

“Never have i ever” Jon states, his voice a quiet whisper. 

“Yeah that!” Tim applauds. The messy sweep of his hair falls in front of his eyes before pushing it back and reaching for the mouthwash. Is that normal?

“The rules, Tim?” Elias presses, intrigued.

“You’ve never played?!” Tim parrots the phrase again and the distinct feeling of a headache clouds over Elias’s mind.

“No, Explain” it may be a weak excuse for a compulsion but his patience is wearing incredibly thin, incredibly fast. 

Instantly Tim’s expression smooths over as the tired joy evacuates his eyes for one brief moment as clarity settles in. “‘Never Have I Ever’, also known as ‘I've Never…’ or ‘Ten Fingers’, is a drinking game in which players take turns asking other players about things they have not done. Other players who have done this thing respond by taking a drink” he explains with little time taken for pause as the information spills like cheap wine from a drunkard's bottle.

“Drink?” Elias arches a brow, finally pinning the crux of this conundrum. 

“Orange juice” Martin hiccups from the end of the table and holds out his cup, showing the orange drink inside. Elias flickers his gaze from between the drink and the red faced man offering it, taking in the messy red hair and skewed glasses.

To be honest, that’s how Martin usually looks.

“Alright, I’m in” Elias accepts the drink poured for him by Sasha and settles down for the round.

“Great! I’ll start!” Tim chimes, holding his cup close to his chest and pauses to think “...oh! Never have i ever gone skinny dipping!”

Immediately Sasha reaches for her cup, ignoring Tim’s cackle of delight as she sips at the suspicious orange juice. Elias for a moment contemplates if this is a mistake to partake in, as revealing personal facts isn’t the greatest thing for a 200 year old body hoping murderer to keep undercover. 

But rules are rules. 

He reaches for his drink and takes a sip, surprised by the sudden sharpness on his tongue. Before being even more so surprised by the table's uproar of astonishment. Their giggles and gasps refreshing to his ears as a new warmth settles upon his cheeks. Where was this orange juice from again?

“No way- when was that?!” 

“I don’t believe the rules stated clarification was also needed Mr Blackwood” their Boss hums with that heightened smugness he loves so much like a cat drunk on bureaucratic power.

“Oh, hmm, yeah” Martin nods before slinking back into his chair with a depressing sag. “Who’s turn is it?” 

————————- Two hours later ————————

“Never- ha!- never have i ever been to a strip club!”

“Martin that’s just sad” Sasha pouts as she takes a hearty swig of her drink. They ran out of special orange juice an hour ago and moved on to some stronger stuff Liam from artefact storage had hidden in a Pepsi bottle.

Tim nods in agreement “yeah, i meannnnnnn, like how?” 

“Oh please, it's one thing t-to brag about attending but-“ Elias pauses with his drink pulling away from his lips and points a direct finger at no one in particular on the table, desperately trying to remember what he was saying “.....have you ever performed? No! So don’t judge a-a-a Stripper by...their… what was i saying?”

Jon shrugs looking just as lost as a duck in the ocean. He’s still sipping at the cup of orange juice he started with and not entirely sure what’s going on. But Martin is sitting beside him and he likes Martin. So it's not all bad. Really. What’s happening again?

“You know what my old Bouchard-Buddy? You’re completely right” Tim steers the conversation, pouring more mouthwash into Elias’s cup in a completely non-suspicious way “Jon, it's your turn”

“Oh, hmmm…. pass” he hums with tired eyes. 

Tim groans, “no- Jon you can't pass! We’ve talked about this”

“Have we?”

“Yes- five times now”

“Oh, sorry” the bedraggled man shrugs laboriously before tapping his fingers against the cup, thinking. “Hmmmmm…. i, uhhh, i've never had a one night stand”

“That's not how you say- fine, drink up everyone” announces Tim before he drains his cup. The others, unsurprisingly, follow his lead. Martin tries hard to hide his already brazenly red face behind the rim of his cup whilst Jon looks on into deep space; head absolutely empty.

No thoughts.

“You know Martin, i didn't pin you as the type to hit and run as it where-“ Elias presses on, putting his drink down and leans heavily on the table to see past his spaced out Archivist.

“UHHH, Sasha I believe it’s your turn!” Claims Martin with an undignified quiver to his voice, turning the conversation on a dime and dodging the prying gaze of his boss. 

Why was this even a thing? Why was Elias here? When did he turn up? What day is it?

“Alright boys-“ Sasha takes the abruptly bestowed attention like a prize and displays it as such. With a confident tucking of her hair behind her ear does she sit up straighter in her chair and gives them a drunkenly dramatic side eye “never have i ever….taken part in an orgy”

Martin laughs.

Tim tuts with disappointment and pulls his hand away from his drink with a mournful shrug.

Jon pretty much has fallen asleep with his eyes open.

Elias, however, drains his cup before giving them all an incredulous, wide eyed stare.

“None of you? Oh! You haven’t lived!” He cries out, eyebrows reaching his hairline, “oh the stories I could tell”

“Please do” Tim nods with excited agreement, reaching out for his bosses empty cup to refill like a five star bartender. 

“Well, it all started with- is that Eartha Kitt?!?! I love this song!” Before anyone can even redirect his derailed train of thought, he is out of his chair and getting up onto the table to dance as if his hips were 17 years younger.

It is 9pm on a Tuesday night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

“OooooOOhoHOOOHhhhhh LoOve! OOooooOOOhhhHHHOHHohhhhoohhh LllllloooOVeeErrrrr bOOOYYYYYY! WHAT ya DOo tONIgHt! Hey bO-!”

It is nearly 2am and Elias Bouchard has finally fallen out of his seat. 

“May-maybe its time to stop?” Martin hiccups from the corner of the room, his plastic cup long since been turned into a stylish hat and legs tired from the impromptu dance off an hour ago.

Nearby Jon is passed out on the floor with Sasha tenderly braiding his hair and rubbing off the less than helpful doodles Tim and Elias left on his bare skin. They’re the last ones standing- or well, stranded- in the institute, near legless and lacking dignity where they lay scattered around the room.

“Yeah” Tim muses, strewn across two collapsible chairs, watching the Big Boss Bouchard butcher Freddie Mercury, “cab?”

Sasha instantly reaches for her phone- which miraculously still has charge after videoing Martin and Jon perform Love Shack together- “yeah, ill order one if we split”

Tim and Martin chorus of agreement and Jon gives a halfhearted, intelligible mumble from the floor. It was probably a yes. 

“Nononononono…. call Peter” the intoxicated voice of their boss orders, still half on his chair half under the table. 

“Who’s Peter?” The rest of them ask like a troop of sluggish parrots, some slurring their words as collective confusion strikes. 

“Ssss’bund” murmurs Elias as he searches his breast pocket for his phone, though not taking the time to sit up and look. No he can do this through touch and uncoordinated touch alone. 

Which he does manage. Before hurling it unceremoniously at the nearest person to him. “Call hiiiiiiimmmmm”

So it's a good thing Tim is still 78% sober from not actually drinking his special mouthwash juice to catch the hurled item. He’s not an idiot. Someone had to be sober to remember this or it would have been all for nothing. 

“Password?”

“1818”

Tim doesnt question it as he types in the numbers and instantly goes to the contacts. Though he's surprised to find only three actual contacts pencilled in; Rosie, S. FAIRCHILD and Sea bear 💕.

Now, Tim may only be 78% on the ball but his brain is in gear enough to connect the dots and never ever let this fact go. A slight smile tugs at his features as he dials the mystery number of this so-called Sea Bear💕.

At first the phone is left to ring, calling out with a lonely tone as their unknown recipient refuses to pick up. The room waits with bated breath- apart from Jon, who's just spaced out- for an answer which they are keen to hear. They aren't left unsatisfied for long however as after a couple more desolate tones their stranger picks up. 

“Elias, i told you not to ring after one, Freighters of the North is on” a sleepily gruff voice comes from the device, though under the obvious tiredness there lays a hint of odd cheeriness to the man. As if he is perpetually always fixed in an facade of happiness to hide a far deeper intention. 

Tim doesn’t dwell on this as Elias starts to look closer and closer to passing out from where he lays. 

“Uh, hi? Peter?” 

“Who is this? Where's Elias?” The stranger, Peter, instantly changes his tune from exasperation to interrogation, throwing questions at Tim. And he is in no way drunk enough for this turn in the evening. Wait. No, morning rather. God, they have to be back here to work in six hours. 

Woops. 

“Its Tim….from the institute” he prompts, not sure if Elias has ever mentioned the infamous Mr Stoker to his apparent Sea Bear💕. “Uh, Elias told us to call you, he's uhhh….overindulged?”

There's a muffled sigh of disappointment on the other end of the line. “He's at the institute?”

“Yeah, he’s here” Tim spares their boss a quick glance “passed out under a table” 

“I'll be ten minutes” Peter informs before abruptly cutting off the call with little fanfare, leaving Tim a little shell shocked. Slowly he sets the phone down on the floor with a forlorn sweep of his arm and drapes morosely like a dramatic Edwardian.

Not the only one in the room, so it seems as Elias groans under the table.

“Well?” Martin questions, making his way up onto unsteady legs.

“He’s coming over” 

“Who is he?” Like Martin, Sasha also takes to standing, leaving the flat out Jon to lazily drift back into consciousness. His mouth is dry and vision blurry.

Is this heaven? He sees the penis drawn on the back of his hand. 

No. It isn’t.

“How should i know?” The infamous voice of Tim draws Jon’s attention back into the reality of this not-heaven with a half-aborted wretch, “ask the big boss” Stoker nods his head to the state that is their boss to see hes finally managed to sit up on his own. Which is progress. Though now he is stuck under the table and pretending not to panic.

Sasha, seeing the imminent ‘drunk confusion storm’ brewing on the horizons of Elias’s pinched brow, approaches him and offers a guiding hand. 

“Elias?” She asks, slow and comforting, “who’s Peter?” 

Clarity instantly hits Elias over the head like some sort of metal piping, maybe lead? I don’t know, I’m grasping at straws really. Anyway. His eyes light up at the mention of his husband, a familiar name in such…unfamiliar times.

“Ohhh, Peeeeter!” He beams while gripping onto Sasha for balance like a rubbish flamingo, “hes my suhsbund- hashband-hussss” he pauses, a look of concentration on his face as he rearranges the letters accordingly “hus-band”

“You’re married?!” The rabble all manage to yelp together.

“Of course! Look at the ring- am i wearing the ring?” He peers at his wedding finger as if he's a terrible pawn broker, glaring at the hunk of platinum wrapped around it. Honestly if it wasn't for the five massive diamonds guarding the perimeter then it would be barely noticeable at all. And he forgets that he's even married from time to time.

Wait, is he still married?

Did he forget to take the ring off again?

No, he still remembers the wedding. Faintly. It was the one where they honeymooned in Iceland and Peter took him on a romantic boat ride. Or was that the weekend trip to Monte Carlo? No, it was definitely Iceland because Peter had to keep giving him his coat to keep him warm. 

A faint heat rises against Elias's cheeks as he thinks upon those fond memories. 

Or perhaps it is that third cup of mouthwash making a comeback. 

Who knows? 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Peter knows where he's going. Faintly. Remembering the way like a retired bloodhound finally seeking out a scent. 

It’s down the stairs and to the left. 

Or maybe the right? 

It's hard to find your way in a tower of observation as the eyes only pry, never give direction. But he should be fine. Elias talks about the place enough that he has a rough mental map of where to go. His heavy tread on the creaking stairs is an unwanted orchestra however as he makes his descent, highlighting his presence like bees protecting their hive. 

He had to fight the urge to disappear into the waiting arms of his patron and just let Elias find his own way home but Peter knew, deep in his bones, the ache of Elias's temper would be worse than the light needling of the social niceties he would need to enact. 

Which is exactly why he declined Elias's offer to join him at the party in the first place. It was like asking a snake to slither over hot coals. Preposterous.

This was Elias’s domain and should remain as such. 

He would never ask Elias to board the Tundra, the same way he’d never ask for a prenup before a wedding. Though they may be married they are most definitely different people.

One who revels in attention and observation like a preening peacock and the other who flees the heat of lime light like a pensive pheasant running from gunsmoke. 

They are different. Yet they sometimes find themselves, I suppose you could say, in Love with one another. Though lust is a far more common word in their nuptial vocabulary. 

But the former is vaguely why Peter is hunting through the old walls of the Watcher for his forsaken spouse at 2am on a Wednesday. 

“Elias?” He calls as he enters a room he's certain he heard voices coming from. Inside is a cacophony of flashing christmas lights and a small gathering of people crowded around something. 

That something is, predictably, his husband. Whom of which is slumped in a chair, refusing the offered glass of water being shoved in his face by his little crowd and whining the way he does when he's going to start crying over nothing. 

Peter coughs into his fist, announcing himself, and parting the crowd like a scruffy messiah to a squabbling Red Sea. The stranger’s expressions shift from surprise to understanding within a few drunkenly delayed seconds. Though Elias jumps to another conclusion. 

And by jump, I mean, leaps. He literally jolts upward, out of his seat with arms outstretched. Face unchanging from that jubilant smile which beams from his face as he sets eyes upon his Knight in Cashmere. 

“Darling!” Loudly he yells, gracefully falling into his husband’s arms like a swan tripping over its own feet. From the cushion of Peter’s broad chest he looks upward, those gorgeous bottle green eyes staring dreamily as if observing the stars. Or adoring his flowers soaking in the sunlight. “I didnt kn-know you were coming?” 

A man from the little gathering tsks. 

“You asked us to call him, remember?” They state, crossing their arms as well-founded amusement settles upon his stature. Next to him a woman is trying her best to not act like she’s shamelessly filming the interaction on her phone and another man, larger than the first, is desperately attempting to make himself smaller. The fourth member of their band is sitting crosslegged on the floor, utterly unreadable. 

Peter gives them all a second once over, sizing the strangers up. Incessently the lense of the camera prickles against his skin like ants over a picnic, annoying and unwanted. Almost subconsciously his hand tightens its grip around Elias’s prone form as he settles his focus on the confident young man before him. 

“And you are-?”

“-My FRIENDS!” Elias interrupts, wriggling in Peter’s grip to better his view of the merry bunch “i must introduce you!” 

Sluggishly Elias points a manicured hand down to his archivist, not bothering to try and pull Jon’s attention from that deep, dark, desolate landscape he has plummeted to. “This is Jon-“

“Oh the-!”

Instantly Elias pushes his fingers to Peter’s lips, quieting him like an impatient mother, “shhhuuuhhssshhh your beautiful mouth” his hand lingers for an uncomfortable moment before swiftly moving on to the next in line, pointing through the gathering like an aristocrat bestowing a hand to kiss “and then theres Tim and Sssshahssa? Aaaaaand Marvin” 

“Uh, Martin'' the Lad corrects quietly. He holds himself tightly around the elbows and refuses to really meet Peter's eye. The lonely swirls around his ankles and combs its tender finger’s through his hair, lapping at him in gentle waves. Peter tilts his head and ponders why Elias has never spoken of him before. 

Why hasnt he mentioned harbouring one of his kind in his harem of Ocular layabouts? 

Perhaps embarrassment.

Goodness knows Elias doesn't like to talk about the time he accidentally allowed one of the Web weave about in the rafters. 

That conversation, however, will have to wait for a time when his spouse can stand on his own let alone form coherent sentences. 

“And you’re….Peter Lukas? His husband?” Sasha hints, hiding the phone unsuccessfully in her hands. 

“And sole beneficiary to the institutions funding” Jon adds as he momentarily fizzles back into reality before zoning out into the space between the eye lens and lid. 

Martin is the only one to really look at Jon with concern as the others focus upon the giant enigma that is their boss’s husband. And apparent sugar daddy? 

“So you provide the institute's funding?” Sasha repeats, the last few orange juice surprises slowing her comprehension down just a tad. She really should have stopped at number nine. But then again, it's Christmas. 

Quietly Peter chuckles and stabilizes Elias upon his arm before thinking over the question. A wiry smile gracing his features as a light twinkles in his eye. 

“Yes, its Elias’s most favoured trait” he slightly jostles the man clinging to his elbow “scavenging small fortunes rather than actually working for it” 

Beside him Elias’s nose crinkles with distaste. The perfectly smooth brow wrinkles and his eyes harden as the claim turns over in his head like an old engine finally spluttering to life. With uncoordinated action, Elias lamely strikes his fist against Peter's shoulder and makes a noise liken to an angry lamb. 

“Hey! I work hard for my money!” 

Peter is as perturbed by his husband’s displeasure as a wolf is to a rabbit. Sweetly, Peter chuckles, low and rippling while rolling his eyes. 

“Of course you do” for extra measure he pats Elias’s knuckles fondly as to be a soothing gesture. At some point Sasha starts filming again, though this time unnoticed as Elias glares at his husband. 

Pointedly, Elias frees his hand and jabs a manicured nail into the heart of Peter's chest. “Well, you try sucking a nine inch-!” 

“OKAY! you win” hastily the large man quiets his partner's temper, “maybe it's time we go home? Hmm darling?” 

Not even waiting for the delayed reaction of Tim, Sasha and Martin’s shock to Elias’s outburst, Peter directs him to the door. Only for Elias to instantly fall on the floor. 

“Ow” 

Tim, still not believing what the hell this night has turned into, shakes himself from a shocked stupor and thinks perhaps helping would be appreciated. With half stable legs, he approaches Peter’s side. 

“You need help carrying him-?” 

“No, I'm fine” states the larger man as he hoists Elias into a bridal grip. Though it doesn't look particularly heroic. More like a fireman trying to wrangle an overgrown weasel that's high off smoke inhalation. 

Then he's off. Striding towards the door like a man on a mission. 

Until he realises it's a Pull door. He pauses. 

“Uhh can i get some help with the-“ 

“Yes- of course!” With their combined skills of intoxication and general brilliance, Tim and Sasha manage to work the doors while providing direction to the lost Lukas. A few steps behind them Martin manages to get Jon to stand and walk with surprisingly good balance. 

Though he did get stuck on the stairs at a point due to not figuring out “which one of his feet to put down first”. Which he managed to overcome with Martin’s gracious help. 

After the first flight of stairs, however, does Elias seem to realise where he is, stretching out in Peter’s grip while also curling around him like a limpet. His hands are everywhere as he drunkenly tucks his head into Peter’s collar, snuggling under his jaw. Sleepily he takes in an audible sniff of his husband's cologne and smiles. 

“Hnnng reminds me o’our wedding,,,, m’sexy beast” he mutters happily. 

Tim tries desperately not to let that be the event to break him as he holds back the bubbling urge to giggle like a school boy. Absently he hopes to whatever entity there is that Sasha got that on tape. 

“My head huuurrts” Elias whines. 

Absently Peter prays to his entity that it just swallows them all whole as he quietly rubs circles into the small of his husband’s back. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

After what seems like an eternity of climbing stairs and endless hallways, they find themselves on the stone steps of the institute’s front porch. Just beyond the pavement sits a lavish stretch limousine, sleek in colour and shining in the lamp light. 

A man, the driver, is leaning up against the passenger door with a cigarette between his lips. Though he is quick to take the last few drags as he sees the state of his employers. 

“Welp” Tim, in his caddish good nature, turns and throws a salute to the crumpled mess of Mr. Bouchard “merry Christmas boss” 

For a moment Elias smiles. His face brightening and eyes soft, nodding absently to his beloved archival crew. There is a small glint of fondness in his expression as he looks about the four mismatched employees. That is until he abruptly turns and throws up over Peter’s shoulder. 

The sea captain barely allows his expression to shift from unsurprised disapproval as he feels the contents of Elias’s stomach roll down his coat. He heaves a sigh and tries not to flinch at the smell. 

“Mmm sorry” Bouchard whimpers, pressing his heated forehead to Peter’s cheek. 

The group remain in shocked silence, some barely containing smiles, others states of horror. And Jon staring off into the shadows of the street having missed the whole exchange. 

Courteously, Peter bids them all a passive aggressive thanks and farewell before taking off down the steps. Elias tucked up against him like a revoltingly precious koala that just won't let go. 

The archival staff all, except Jon, wince at the state of Peter’s coat while watching pensively as he lays their paralytic boss in the back of the limo. There is a momentary scuffle as Elias arranges himself before Peter can remove his jacket and carefully hand it to the driver. Who looks like not even his paycheck covers this bullshit as he stubs out his cigarette and takes the offered article. 

From atop the stairs, they watch and wave at the limo as it pulls away from the curb, giving it only a sombre pause of dignity before cackling like a pack of drunken hyenas. Tim chokes on his saliva as Martin near falls down the stairs to the looped sound of Mr. Bouchard vomiting from Sasha's phone. 

“Fuck, im making that my new ring tone” Tim exclaims, celebrating the best Christmas present he could have ever wished for. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

In the early hours of the next day, a very rumpled Elias awakens with a mouth as dry as the Sahara and pillowed up against Peter’s side. He grumbles a low utterance of discontent before burying deeper into the cover of the duvet. 

“Oh good morning, Sleepy head” the obnoxious tone of his husband rings out above him like a tolling bell. Elias hides further into the covers. 

“Please be quiet” he growls. 

Beside him Peter shuffles, jostling him about like a ragdoll. The beast. 

“Apologies your majesty, do you have a sore head?” Peter pouts, settling a hand down on the covers and gently rubbing Elias's side. 

“Piss off” 

Though Elias can’t physically see Peter’s wolfish grin of self-satisfaction, he can sense it. He can practically feel the smugness radiating off of him like a petrol fire from chernobyl. Which isn't making this headache any less tolerable. 

He should really demand another divorce. He cant even remember why he agreed to marry him in the first- 

“So you don't want some coffee and aspirin?” 

Ah.

The pillows shift slightly as the tiniest fraction of Elias’s face peeks out from below the covers. 

“Please?” 

“Of course” gently Peter leans over to place a soft kiss on the portion of forehead he can get to, “you still owe me a new coat, though”

“Ughhhghh” a strangled whine comes from below the duvet. 

Next year the Christmas party is most definitely cancelled.


End file.
